Leading Lady
by RomanCandle6
Summary: Will Christine Daaé continue to play the part of a chorus girl in the story of her own life, allowing fear to make her decisions for her? Or will she take her place as the leading lady she was born to be, alongside the man she was born to love?
1. Prologue

If you are a first-time reader of my stories, welcome! If you have read any of my previous work, I am honored that you are back to read more. I hope you enjoy my first multi-chapter journey into the Phantom's world, and Christine's heart. This story is complete. I plan on submitting a new chapter every day.

I do not own these characters; they are drawn from several incarnations of The Phantom of the Opera. The Andrew Lloyd Webber musical and the original Leroux novel have provided me with the greatest source of inspiration.

* * *

 **Prologue**

The organ keys were gathering dust.

Long, white fingers, once supple and strong, rested idly upon them. Hands born to weave melodies, harmonies, and counterpoints of intricate beauty sat silent. Erik stared at the blank page in front of him without seeing.

The music had left him.

On the red carpet beside the bench lay a discarded piece of newsprint, ragged at the edges from being hastily torn from _Le Temps_. Erik could not bear to look at it again. He already knew what it said. He had read it so many times that morning that he had memorized its contents.

"A Fairytale Wedding," it read in gaudy, loud lettering. Then, in smaller print, "The happy marriage of Raoul, the Vicomte de Chagny, and his childhood sweetheart, opera diva Christine Daaé, will take place today at the de Chagny chapel just outside Paris at 12:00 pm."

Erik had known this day would eventually come. He had always known, ever since the night Christine had left him. He thought he had prepared himself…but he never could have anticipated the blow that seeing the truth in black-and-white newsprint struck within him. It was done.

Of course, it had been done well before now; Erik knew that perfectly well. He knew before he watched Christine sail away across the lake with that wretched _boy_. He knew before she gave him his ring back. He knew, in the precise moment when her perfect lips touched his for the first time, that she was no longer his to possess. She kissed him with all of the passion he'd sensed within her since she was a young girl; she kissed him with all of the love that he knew she carried for him somewhere in her heart…the love that she could not yet see that she felt. Thus, it was in the moment of his deepest joy that he found the most profound sorrow. For the very first time, he realized that no matter how much he wanted to, he could not _make_ her see that she loved him, even if his entire soul screamed out to her to notice it. She would have to discover it on her own.

That secret love laced her kiss, her body responding to a truth that her mind did not understand. But if Erik wanted Christine to love him as he loved her, her whole self would have to know it. That would never happen if she believed that she was a prisoner for the rest of her days. She had to be as willing as he. Would a kiss, granted by his beautiful Christine of her own accord, not be infinitely sweeter than all of the forced touches of the past? He had to let her go. And so he did.

As the time passed and the days and nights blurred together, Erik tried to tell himself firmly that she was never coming back. But his heart simply wouldn't listen. Something deep within him, in the part of his soul where there were no lies, whispered to him to hold on. Surely, she could not deny the truth of their kiss? Surely, she would not deny the years of friendship, and — dare he think it? — the _love_ that they shared when he was still her Angel of Music? Even after he became a man of real flesh and blood to her, with all of his flaws, crimes, and sins, there had to have been a part of her that still cared for him. After all, he never stopped being the person he was when he was her Angel. He was still the same…

Ah, but that wasn't really true, was it? He was not the same. Her Angel had no hideous disfigurement. He had no flaws, no sins to atone for. It was no crime for an Angel to look with love on a beautiful, talented young woman. An Angel was a noble hero. A Phantom, on the other hand…he was always the villain of the story. The monster.

And the beautiful leading lady never chose the monster.

There was no longer a point in hoping for her return. In many ways, this truth cut him more deeply than her departure ever did. Before today, there had been some chance that she might come back to him. It was a small chance, but it gave him a reason to keep living, to eat and sleep when he could, and to try — fruitlessly — to compose his music. Seeing the proof of her approaching nuptials lent a finality to the situation that had not been there before. No longer was the ending of his love story indefinite, something that could someday continue, an ellipsis in the middle of a sentence. It was a period, cold and harsh and immediate. His part in the life of the only woman he had ever loved had come to a close. He would never hear her voice again, never see her beautiful smile. He would never talk with her as they used to talk, about her hopes and most secret dreams. He would never know the joy of seeing her in a wedding dress, beaming at him because she was to spend the rest of her life with him. He would never grow old with her, never walk arm in arm with her on a Sunday afternoon. Christine would marry her darling Vicomte and live happily ever after. She would bear his children, share his life, and live as a Vicomtesse should. She, the most perfect princess, had found her happily ever after in the arms of a dashing young prince, and escaped the monstrous villain.

Never mind that for years of her life, he had been an Angel.

Erik was completely, utterly, and irrevocably alone.

And now that he had tasted, if only for a few years, what it was to have someone else to live for…someone he cared about…he wasn't sure if he could stand living with only shadows for company any longer.

His vision clouded over in shades of red. Shooting pains tormented the backs of his eyes, and he was vaguely conscious of a scream tearing from his chest. His feet were moving, and moving quickly, though he wasn't sure where, until a large gilded mirror appeared before him. There was a crash, the glitter of shattered glass, and suddenly his hand was coated in red.

He looked at the door on the opposite end of her dressing room. He could still stop all of this, and make Christine see that she really did love him. All he had to do was find the de Chagny chapel. He could take back his decision to let her go. He could bring her back home, where she belonged.

But he couldn't make himself do it. Even in this blind rage and grief, he could not harm his dearest love again. He could not take her choice away. _She_ had to want _him_ , or it would be for nothing. And that was no longer possible.

Erik didn't know how he reached the edge of his underground lake. He just knew that the water looked so quiet...and peaceful. Just like the nighttime. The nighttime had always brought him comfort. Perhaps if he stepped in? Just for a moment, anyway. He would go up to his knees…and then his chest…and then let the cool, inky feeling of the water slip over his head. And he would rest like that.

Just for a few minutes.

But then, the darkness had always called to him. Maybe this time he would let it take him.


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

Christine Daaé had been trained to play the leading lady all her life.

When she was a little girl, her father taught her to keep her shoulders back and her head held high. He taught her how far a smile could go to win over a crowd, and how a show of confidence could cover up the worst case of nerves.

As she grew, she was instructed in the art of using her voice — how to make it resonate clear and strong in her delicate body. She learned to dance as gracefully as a queen. She was trained in the art of creating emotion, in using her face as a canvas for painting striking portraits of the purest joy and the most tragic heartbreak.

Yes, Christine knew exactly how to tell the story of any of opera's leading ladies.

But when it came to her own story, she was hopelessly lost.

With her face and hair done up like a porcelain doll, and her glorious white wedding gown flowing about her willowy frame, she certainly looked the part. To a stranger's eyes, she would be the very image of the perfect bride. She was the essence of maidenhood, rescued from the clutches of a terrifying monster by a dashing hero. The princess was about to marry her prince, never to have a worry again.

Her dreams were all coming true, she told herself. Ever since she was small, she had wanted to marry Raoul. This was the logical conclusion to her story.

Wasn't it?

For what seemed to be the hundredth time that morning, Christine tried to smile into her vanity mirror, forcing it to reach her eyes. On her worst performance day, it had never been this difficult.

 _I am happy_ , she told herself firmly. _I am happy. This is right. This is easy. This is safe. This is the right choice_ _…_

Christine closed her eyes.

The right choice? The easy choice? What about this situation was right or easy?

Christine allowed her head to fall forward onto her arms, her hands curling into tight fists. She was overwhelmed by how much she hated herself in that moment — she hated her naïveté, her indecisiveness, her utter lack of strength when it came to directing the course of her own life. She was so disgustingly _weak_ , and everyone had paid the price.

Slowly, she raised her head, and opened her little white hands before her eyes. Most people used their hands to do good in the world. Had hers ever done anything but destroy?

Had she ever used them to take a stand for herself, for what _she_ wanted from life? Or, like everything else that was special about her, had they only ever been a tool for stronger personalities to control?

In her youth, her hands had been passively molded from the sturdy hands of a Swedish country girl into those of a graceful dancer, carrying music, grace, and seduction in their every movement. Raoul held them fondly, supreme devotion in every touch as he transformed her from an opera singer into a vicomte's fiancée. In the same breath, her hands had been used to crush the heart of a man who hardly dared touch them.

Christine closed her eyes, her perfect, ivory, innocent-looking hands falling uselessly into her lap.

Useless…that was really the essence of her existence, wasn't it? She had spent her life being piloted about by others, letting all of her choices be made for her because she was too weak to make them for herself.

And the one choice she _had_ made for herself…in the moment when she held a disfigured face in her hands, and sealed her fate through a kiss…even that had been stolen from her through her own weak will.

She did genuinely care for Raoul. She knew so certainly that they would work. Why, then, when she looked at the handsome young nobleman with whom she was to share the rest of her life, was she filled only with guilt — and a profound sense that something significant was missing? Whenever she thought of her fairytale wedding, why did it bring her dread instead of joy? Raoul was safety, Raoul was light. His kisses were gentle, like him, never forcing anything that she was not ready to give. Always, he was confident that her own declaration of love for him would come in time. He never doubted that she would be his, now that her disastrous time at the Opéra Garnier was over.

He didn't know about the nightmares. He didn't notice her tired, sleepless eyes, so carefully concealed each day by her artful façades. He did not know how much that final night at the Opera, and her final choice, still haunted her.

For many months, she had assumed that the tender fondness that she felt for Raoul was love. It made sense that way. There was nothing terribly complex or difficult about it. He was noble, handsome, kind — everything a young lady would want in her fairytale prince. When she was a little girl, she was certain that she would love him forever.

 _Of course I love him_ , Christine thought to herself. _I must. I am marrying him in an hour._

She raised her head to meet her own eyes in the mirror once more.

 _I must._

But, as always, one lingering doubt plagued her. It was a doubt that had been steadily growing ever since the last fatal night at the Opéra — when, for the first time in her life, she stood up on her own two feet and made a decision that was hers, and hers alone.

When she dared to touch her lips to those of an Angel, the world had shifted.

Christine shook her head. Not today, she could not think about this today…

But then, she thought about it every day.

Her cheeks flushed. The need for fresh air had suddenly become imperative. She rose quickly to her feet and made for her balcony, in the hopes of avoiding the truth that had always threatened to overwhelm her.

Before she could reach it, however, there was a knock on her door.

Christine spun around, quickly smoothing her skirts and ensuring that her mask was intact.

"Come in!"

The door opened quietly. Meg, her maid of honor, entered and smiled gently, her soft blue skirts faintly swishing.

"It's nearly time. Are you ready?"

Christine plastered her stage smile on her face yet again.

"Of course."

But Meg knew that false smile all too well. She had performed alongside it too many times.

"You're not ready."

Christine's veneer, worn thin with use, cracked with that simple statement of truth. Her expression became one of utter helplessness. She did not cry — she had not cried since her final night at the Opera six months ago. Christine was secretly convinced that she had wept all of the tears that her body could ever hope to hold.

Staring at her skirts, she shook her head.

"I don't know what to do, Meg."

Meg moved into the room, shutting the door quietly behind her.

"Tell me, Christine," urged Meg. "You know that you can always tell me anything."

Christine moved slowly back to the center of the room and sank onto her bed, bringing her fingers to her temples. She drew a long, shaky breath. How to begin talking about all of this? How could she even begin to pour out the inmost contents of her soul?

Meg moved toward her. Wordlessly, she took both of Christine's hands in her own, keeping hold of them as she sat beside her.

Christine looked up into the calm blue depths of Meg's eyes. It had been far too long since she had had a friend to talk to, without lies, pressures, ultimatums — or the strict social rules that governed the proper etiquette of a future Vicomtesse. It had been far too long without Meg.

She swallowed back a lump in her throat that she hadn't realized was there.

"I've…been having nightmares," she began.

"Nightmares…" Meg tilted her head, her brows furrowing.

"Well, just one, really. The same one. Every night," Christine's face flushed with frustration. Of course this would seem silly to anyone else but her — it was her wedding day, and yet, here she was, cooped up in her room talking about a bad dream. "It's more than just a nightmare, Meg, it's…a horror. It is all of my worst fears brought to life."

"Go on."

Christine closed her eyes. When she spoke, her voice was faint.

"In the nightmare, I am…in the Opera House. In the chapel where I used to pray for my father."

Meg nodded, squeezing Christine's hands. She knew the subtext. That chapel was the first place where Christine had ever heard the voice of the man she had believed to be her Angel of Music.

"And standing there…is Erik."

A small, delirious sort of grin brightened Christine's pale face. Meg was taken aback, though she concealed it well. This was the happiest expression Meg had seen her friend wear since she had come to live permanently at the de Chagny estate. Christine's eyes opened.

"He smiles at me. As if nothing bad ever happened to us. His smiles are so rare. When I left the Opéra, it had been months since he smiled at me…" She looked down at her hands, a wistful glow shining in her eyes. "And I think, _My Erik is here to save me from my nightmares. He has forgiven me. If I just take these few steps to him, he will hold me and take me far away, to a place where nothing will hurt me or steal away the people I love ever again._ "

Christine's entire countenance darkened.

"But then, when I go forward to take his hands, and I am able to see his eyes for the first time…they are empty. Those beautiful golden eyes, always sparking with life, on fire with emotion and thought beneath that mask…they are dead eyes. I try to talk to him, but he won't respond. He just stands there, as I shake his shoulders and try to rouse him. And then —"

She bit her lip, wincing from the guilt that the memory brought her.

"His golden eyes turn to blue, an angry ocean blue like the sea during a storm. And he shouts one word, not with his voice, but with Raoul's. _Adulteress._ Adulteress…and then Erik turns into Raoul, proclaiming that he has caught me in my sin at last. _Don_ _'_ _t pretend you don_ _'_ _t know, darling_ , he says, spitting the words like insults. _After all we have been through, after all I have done for you, after I have saved you from a wretched life with a monster in the dark, you betray me!_ _"_ Christine looked up quickly, meeting Meg's eyes with a pleading gaze. "Of course, I have never been unfaithful to Raoul, and I tell him that. But he simply spreads his arms, gesturing to the room around us, which transforms into Erik's house by the lake. _Then what is this?_ he asks. _You sleep in my home, and dream of his_. I shut my eyes to close out his rage, and when I open them, I — I see…"

Christine trailed off, her voice suddenly failing her.

"What, Christine?" Meg urged calmly. "What do you see?"

Her reply came out in a shaky whisper.

"My father…I see my father standing before me, with darkness all around. And I run to him and cling to him, begging with him to help me. I need his help to find my way out of the dark. But he does not put his arms around me, or offer any words of comfort. He only tells me…that I am a disappointment to him. That he had expected better of me…that I have failed him."

As she had so often when they were small, Christine pulled her legs up to her chest, burying her head atop them in her thick curtain of curls. Though she did not weep, she was shaking.

"Oh, my dear Christine," Meg swept her best friend into a hug, stroking her hair. She pulled Christine's head gently under her chin. "You know your father would never think that! He loved you so much — he had as much love for you as a parent's heart can hold. You know that better than any of us."

She pulled back, holding Christine's face between her hands. Those faded, joyless blue eyes were still downcast.

"Christine," Meg regarded her seriously. She waited until Christine lifted her eyes. "You know that."

Christine nodded lifelessly. Meg sighed softly, her eyes showing love and sorrow in equal parts. They were quiet for a time.

Christine was the first to break the silence.

"Even so…I know that I have so much to answer for. I've hurt so many people, Meg. I am the reason that two men were murdered. I am the reason that you and your mother were put through so much pain and sorrow. I am the reason that this wedding day cannot be the perfection that Raoul wants it to be — the reason that he is hurting. And I am the reason that the heart of my Angel of Music is broken. My father did not raise me to be the reason for pain. Have I ever been the reason for anything good?

"Christine, perhaps — perhaps you should stop berating yourself that way," Meg said. "This isn't good for you on your wedding day, and it's no use devoting all your strength to—"

"No!" Christine's eyes suddenly flashed fire, her cheeks reddening as she broke away from Meg and stood in front of her. Meg was greatly taken aback — she had never seen her friend behave like this. "No! Don't you dare trivialize what I am feeling! Doesn't anyone understand? I thought certainly you would, Meg — you were always the one I could count on to listen! But my emotions are destined to be swept under the rug for all eternity, it seems. Always, I am too weak for this, too frail for that, poor Christine with the dead father! She will just be our pretty little dress-up doll, and we will teach her ballet, and we will teach her to sing — and she will do it nicely for us because she only tries her hardest to make people happy! Though I can hardly understand why people want me to do anything anymore, because it seems as though every time I am involved, everyone I love pays the price."

Christine brought her fingers to her temples, massaging them as she paced.

"And then, every time I try to tell someone that I want something, or that I think something is best, they pat me on the head and tell me why their decision for my life is obviously better. _No, Messieurs Andr_ _é_ _and Firmin, I would rather not sing in_ Don Juan Triumphant. _No, Raoul, we really should not flaunt our engagement around the Opera House_ _—_ _wait until the time is right_ _…_ Her voice cracked. "I know that I have been weak, though. It really is not anyone's fault but mine for being so weak…" She sat down, suddenly sapped of energy. "And I…I have broken the people who mean the most to me. I break people, Meg. Like a confused child who doesn't know how to use her toys."

Meg clasped one of Christine's hands between both of hers. She sat in contemplative silence. There were no words for her to say.

"Meg?"

"Yes, Christine?"

"I miss him."

Meg's eyebrows creased. She touched Christine's shoulder gently.

"Would—would you like for me to fetch Raoul? I know it's not conventional for the groom to see the bride before —"

"No, Meg," Christine looked at Meg seriously, as though she was gathering her courage. "I miss…Erik."

Her words seemed to stop the motion of the very air they breathed. As soon as they left her mouth, Christine was sorry that she had given voice to the longing that had been in her heart since the very moment she left her Angel. The shocked silence that stretched on and on was unbearable.

Christine sank back into herself, her flurry of passion deflated as quickly as it had been stirred up. She looked defeated, almost ill, once more.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, and was faintly conscious of a prickling feeling growing behind her eyes. "Don't think I haven't hated myself for it every single day, but it is the truth. I miss my Erik so."

"Christine, I…" Meg struggled for words, desperately trying to process what she had heard.

"I know," Christine met Meg's eyes, and her bleeding soul shone through them. "I know it's a horrible thing. I'm despicable. I have been engaged to Raoul for nearly a year — dear, sweet Raoul, who only wants me to heal so that we can be happy again. So that I can be the same Christine he knew before all of…. _this_. I was a different person one year ago…In many senses, I was still a little girl — foolish, flighty, and badly scared. So scared…"

Christine became distant, her eyes glimmering faintly in with her memories from what seemed to be so long ago.

"You must understand, Meg…in a matter of days, my Angel of Music, my teacher, my best friend, had become a murdering phantom. He was overwhelming in his passion and possessed a face of nightmares. My heart and mind were forced to grow up in a very short time, and it was so hard to keep the pace. What was I supposed to think, what was I supposed to _feel_ , for a deeply flawed man whose voice of gold once belonged to a perfect, unattainable angel whom I adored?"

Christine's cheeks colored with the hint of a blush.

"When I was fifteen or so, I remember thinking that if my Angel of Music were a man on this unworthy Earth, I would marry him without a thought. He was such a blessing to me. He cared for me so tenderly, and taught me so gently. There were days when we would talk together for hours at a time." She sighed. "But all of that was gone when my Angel took human form — a form that was a bit _too_ human for me to understand at first. The only solid, reassuring thing throughout all of the chaos was Raoul. He shone like a beacon of sunlight, and I clung to the security he represented. At the time he proposed, he was the obvious choice for a mind swimming in confusion. There was so much that was new and terrible and _wonderful_ about my Angel."

Guilty and ashamed, Christine glanced up at Meg, expecting signs of horror or revulsion. But there was no blame on her friend's face. There was only gentle concern, and…compassion?

"Christine," Meg said slowly. "What happened on your last night at the Opera?"

Creased eyebrows formed a furrow between Christine's faded blue eyes. Parrotlike, she recited the same line she had told anyone who had asked about that night for the past six months.

"You know what happened. Raoul told the authorities and the press all that transpired, and you can find everything you want to know in those accounts."

"No, Christine," Meg pressured, urging her gently. "I am no high-society gossip, nor am I a flighty ballet girl. Not today. Today, I am your friend. And as a friend, I am asking you to tell me exactly what happened. Not just what Raoul told to the press, but what happened in _your heart_. Do you understand?"

Christine nodded, her eyes clouded and defeated.

"Yes. But I fear you will not wish to be my friend once I have finished."

Meg remained silent. She did not know how to respond; it was clear that Christine was determined to refuse her care and compassion at every turn. She would have to prove it to her by listening and _showing_ her that she was not like the others. She had no reputation to protect. The only thing she wanted to protect was her friend. And, come to think of it, had that not always been her principle objective, ever since the Opera Ghost disaster had begun? It was a role that Meg took proudly.

A shaky breath filled Christine's lungs.

"The official account released to the press is correct in some ways. In fact, there was nothing false about the account given in the papers — Raoul simply left out the parts that would jeopardize the reputation of our marriage. The last night at the Opera…I _was_ given a choice. Erik caught Raoul in his lasso, threatening to kill him. He told me that if I chose my own freedom and walked free, then Raoul would die. But if I remained in his house by the lake, and married him, then he would allow Raoul to go free."

Christine paused to consider her words.

"But that wasn't _the_ choice. Not really. The true choice had always been there. I was just too frightened to make it for myself. Suddenly, the question that I had always pushed to the wings of my mind was center stage. On the one hand, Raoul is my childhood friend. I did love him — I _do_ love him — in a way. I never wanted to see him hurt. He has given me so much laughter and light. He would keep me safe and well cared for all my days. He is the essence of a simpler time. Long ago…he was my best friend."

She squeezed Meg's hand. She was getting to the tricky part — the part where a man who should have had no business even touching her hand ended up holding her heart.

"But Erik…" Christine began, only to trail off, lost in thought.

Erik.

What was Erik to her? How could she begin to describe that monumental relationship, in all of its dangerous and beautiful complexity? What word held within its confines the most powerful being she had ever known, but in the same breath, the most gentle, the most tender, the most passionate?

Christine blinked. In her first genuine moment of clarity, she knew. She knew the truth that had been alive in her soul since the first time she had ever heard her Angel's voice.

"Erik is my music," she said, more to herself than Meg.

She looked up, saying with more strength this time, "Erik is my music _._ He is the passion in my blood, the fire in my veins. He is everything that makes my soul sing, everything that thrills and terrifies me. He fuels my voice. He lives in my very soul. He is _my music_. And on the last night at the Opera, I didn't cower in fear. No, his face no longer held any horror for me. I took his ravaged face in my hands, and I kissed him, Meg."

If Meg was showing any signs of horror or shock, Christine was no longer paying attention. She stood up, fisting her hands in her skirts.

" _I_ kissed _him_. And for once, everything in my life felt perfect. I made a choice, a real choice, for once in my life. And I chose Erik. But in the blink of an eye, I was sailing back across the lake with Raoul, my choice rendered inconsequential, and my Erik taken away."

Christine bit her lip, the pain of memories that she had tried so hard to repress tearing into her.

"When I heard his tortured cries echoing across the water, it destroyed me. I sobbed until I thought my heart would burst from the pain. Raoul thought it was all a response to the trauma, of course. I was tucked into bed here at the estate. I wept all through the night when he could not see me. By morning, all my tears were gone. They have not returned. But thoughts of Erik, of our one moment of perfect bliss shared in a kiss, always do. Before that moment, I thought that what I felt for Raoul was true love. Now, that isn't so clear. I always, _always_ thought I would marry him. It is the obvious choice. But…"

Christine sighed. She didn't know how to finish. When she finally looked at Meg, she was afraid that she would find revulsion, contempt…or, even worse, that Meg would simply walk out. Christine wouldn't blame her. What she had just confessed was unspeakable. What sort of bride spent her wedding day dwelling on thoughts of another man?

But when she looked into Meg's eyes, all she saw was kindness. Pure, unadulterated kindness, shining as brightly as the sun at dawn.

"You love him."

With that simple statement, all of the strength that Christine had gained in her tirade seemed to leave her.

"Even if that were true, what does it matter, Meg? I _have_ to love Raoul. I am marrying him in — oh, the time! We have to go —"

Meg grabbed Christine's arm and pulled her firmly down beside her on the bed. Unwavering, she looked straight into her eyes.

"No, Christine. You love Erik. You have _always_ loved Erik. This marriage to Raoul…it will be a mistake, Christine."

Christine's voice was more hopeless than it had ever sounded.

"It's too late. I am marrying Raoul, and if I don't — I'll break his heart."

Meg opened her mouth to speak, but she was cut off by a loud knock on the door.

"Meg Giry!"

The familiar sound of Madame Giry banging her cane on the ground met their ears.

"Yes, _maman?_ "

"I need the bride! One is usually needed for a wedding!"

Before Meg could stop her, Christine stood and walked to the door.

"Christine."

She paused, her little white hand resting on the doorknob, and turned her head. Meg walked up behind her.

"I'm not going to stop you, Christine. I will not keep you from this choice — I refuse to be added to the list of those who have kept you from living a life of your own making. But I will say this: today will either be the day that you become the leading lady you were born to be, or you will remain a chorus girl in the story of your own life. The choice is yours."

* * *

To all who read, reviewed, or followed, thank you! Your support is appreciated so very much.

 **Gaby1964:** Thank you! I hope that the coming chapters will exceed your expectations.

 **Billy4Me:** Wow. I am floored by your compliments. Erik is a character who is very close to my heart, so writing him is always a simultaneously thrilling and challenging process for me. He is so gloriously multifaceted. I am glad that my rendition of him has already touched your heart!

 **Glacifly4POTO:** This story will be several more chapters in length, including an epilogue. Stay tuned!

 **Melstrife:** You will read the whole story soon enough, I promise! I hope you liked today's chapter.

 **You Are Love:** "You have truly made my night." (Love the pen name, by the way)


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Christine faced the double doors that led to the chapel, her left arm looped through Madame Giry's right. Since her father's passing, there had been no close male relatives in her life. There was no man whom she could call a true friend — her own personal guardian Angel had always kept her from the advances of the wealthy gentlemen who came to call on the ballerinas. The logical choice for the person who would give her away, then, was the only parent she had known since her long-ago days in Sweden: dear Jules Giry, ballet mistress on the stage, and mother everywhere else.

Anxious sweat beaded at the small of Christine's back. She forced herself to take belly breaths.

Giry patted her arm.

"Nervous, dear? I know I was when I married Meg's father." A rare smile lifted the corners of Giry's lips. "So long ago, it seems. And now _you_ _'_ _re_ getting married. I only hope that someday, Meg can marry someone as good and kindhearted as the Vicomte, too."

The belly breaths weren't working.

Christine turned wide blue eyes to Giry. She was not sure if she could handle this. From the safe space of her bedroom, going forward with her marriage seemed feasible, but each step closer felt more like she was going to her execution. In a flash of thought, she saw the rest of her life pan out before her, filled with laughter, luxury, and family. But this future lacked something important: true, complete love for her husband. If she was always to dwell on what could have been with Erik, whom she knew that she could love with all her heart if only she would let herself, her marriage with Raoul would be broken. Not today, not tomorrow, not for many years, perhaps — but eventually, her soul would become so warped with the lies that she would tell her dear Raoul, her _friend_ , that she would wither away.

"Madame Giry," she said, her voice faint. "You know that I love you as my mother, and Meg as my sister."

Giry smiled warmly, her eyes misty.

"And I love you as my daughter."

"I can tell you most anything, and you will listen?"

Giry nodded, somewhat hesitantly. Christine took a short breath and squared her shoulders.

"I love him."

Giry blinked.

"Well…of course you do, my dear! You're about to be married to the Vicomte. He's a wonderful man."

Christine vigorously shook her head.

"No, Madame Giry. I love _him_. I cannot marry Raoul."

All of the features on Giry's face, which a moment ago were softened with fondness, hardened into stone. Her lips compressed into a thin line.

"You — you love Erik, you mean? You have no idea what you are saying, child. These are the fantasies of a nervous mind. You are about to walk down this aisle and marry a man whom you are lucky to have, who has stood by you through every trial of the past year and loves you all the same. And you want to leave him at the altar like — like some sort of runaway hussy! Christine Daaé, if you returned to Erik now —"

Blood rushed to Christine's cheeks.

"No! I know exactly what I am saying. Believe me when I tell you that I have gone over and over in my mind every awful, painful detail of what could happen, because there are painful consequences no matter what I choose!"

Giry closed her eyes for a moment, taking a steadying breath. She placed a hand on Christine's shoulder. When she opened them, they were tired, pleading.

"My dear, I am only trying to protect you. Please. The Vicomte is a good man. You know that. With him, you will be safe. With Erik..."

Giry heaved a weary sigh, her gaze darkening.

"You know better than I the shadows in his soul. When the madness takes him, he could hurt you so easily."

Christine shook her head, a compassionate, small smile lacing her lips.

"No, Madame Giry. Of one thing I am certain. The world may fall to pieces beneath the force of his rage, but Erik would never hurt me."

She touched Giry's arm in reassurance.

"If I only return to him —"

Christine froze as the opening bars of the bridal march resounded, muffled, against the the dark wood of the doors. Giry grasped Christine's arm in a white-knuckled grip, pulling her firmly beside her. The double doors swung open.

"Smile, dear," Giry said quietly. "And we can both try to forget him."

They began their walk down the aisle. On Raoul's side, the chapel was filled with nobility of every sort. Ladies in their summer gowns of pink and yellow clasped fans in their daintily gloved hands, and gentry sat straight-backed in their formal regalia. Christine noticed with irritation that some were stifling yawns, though she reminded herself that she should be accustomed to their passive rudeness by now. The highborn of Paris had been abuzz for months with gossip about Raoul, the brash young Vicomte de Chagny who had lowered himself to wed an opera diva from a peasant bloodline. Since the Opera disaster, it had grown exponentially worse. Christine's insides cringed. If she acted on her wishes, they would really be talking after today…

Christine's side of the chapel was not nearly as full, with only a few friends from the Opera — several ballet girls wearing the most elegant dresses that they could scrape together, and a few stagehands who had always been kind to her. They smiled at Christine encouragingly. She looked up at Meg standing by the altar. Though Meg's mouth was smiling, her eyes still pled with her to take a stand for herself before it really was too late.

At last, Christine was forced to meet the adoring gaze of her fiancé. The sight of Raoul dressed pristinely in his naval uniform, so much love shining in his ocean-blue eyes, nearly made her sick.

Madame Giry — very firmly — placed Christine's hand in Raoul's. Her gaze lingered, a sharp warning evident in her eyes, before taking her place.

Christine and Raoul faced the priest.

"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today…"

Raoul whispered with a slight chuckle in his voice, "What was Giry on about with that look? Reminding you not to touch your flawless face?"

Christine tried to smile, but struggled even more than she had in her chambers.

"Something like that."

"Christine."

She reluctantly met his eyes. They broke her heart, overflowing with so much awe and devotion. He caressed her with his gaze, desire mixing with disbelief that she was truly his. When he spoke, his words slid through his lips on the faintest of breaths.

"You are absolutely stunning."

Another attempt at a smile and a nervous squeak were all that she could muster in reply. She fixed her eyes on the priest. The minutes ticked by, each one heightening her anxiety. She could feel her heartbeat in every extremity.

Raoul's eyebrows creased with worry.

"Christine, are you all right?"

"Fine," she answered tightly.

Raoul squeezed her hand. How was she going to end this?

Each minute felt like an eternity. Christine tried to pay attention to the ceremony, but her mind was so full that she heard hardly a word that the priest said. An hour later, she thought she would explode. She felt nervous, irritated, angry, and stifled beyond belief. What was she supposed to _do_? It had taken her this long to finally make a choice for herself, and just when she could have escaped, someone had still stopped her!

Her thoughts were interrupted as the priest began to enter into the part of the ceremony that she most feared.

"Do you, Raoul Claude de Chagny, take Christine Annette Daaé to be your wife? Do you promise to be true to her in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, to love her and honor her all the days of your life?"

Raoul grinned broadly, smiling down at Christine.

"I do."

"Christine Annette Daaé, do you take Raoul Claude de Chagny…"

For a brief second, Meg's words played in Christine's mind.

 _The choice is yours_.

Here it was. The moment when she decided whether she would live the rest of her life as a chorus girl or a prima donna — cowering in the shadows, afraid of her own heart and of what others thought of her, or standing boldly in the spotlight to claim the life that was rightfully hers.

And Christine welcomed it.

All her life, little, delicate, weak Christine had all of her decisions made for her. She calmly sat by, doing what she was told, never trying to hurt anyone…and she ended up hurting everyone anyway. But this question that the priest was asking her — it was a choice. It was _her_ choice. And this time, there was no one that could take it from her. Christine Daaé was tired of playing the wilting daisy, the weakling. She was tired of watching her life go by as others wanted her to live it. She had awoken that morning as the same quiet lamb she had always been. Now, with the love and support of a faithful friend, she would emerge as a lioness.

Christine Daaé was the leading lady in her own life.

It had been so long since she had smiled that the grin spreading across her face felt almost foreign to her. Foreign but brilliant. Firmly, confidently, so that everyone could hear, she proclaimed,

"No. I do not."

Gasps rent the air. The priest blinked wide eyes at her.

"Erm…mademoiselle?"

For a moment, Christine's confidence faltered as displeased reactions broke out all around her. But she had to do this, she reminded herself. She could not play the coward any longer simply because others were set against her.

She breathed deeply, and turned to Raoul.

Confusion and hurt shone in his eyes.

"Christine…what…?"

As she looked at Raoul now, Christine saw the boy she had played with as a child — her friend, her childhood daydream. Just as she had when they were very young, when Raoul had hurt himself playing or lost a loved one, Christine threw her arms around his neck and hugged him tightly.

"Raoul," she whispered into his ear. "My dear Raoul, I'm so sorry. You deserve better than me, I've always known that — you deserve better than all I've put you through. You deserve far better than this awful thing I am doing to you. But please understand…I must do it."

She drew back, holding his shoulders and holding his gaze in an effort to drown out the scandalized chatter that swirled around them. Heartbreak splintered across his perfect face, his blue eyes brimming with tears. The sight almost broke her resolve completely.

"What are you saying?" he asked, his voice thick. "Are you — no, you can't be leaving me, not like this. No. Christine, I love you."

She winced, hearing in his words the echo of another man's heart being crushed in her hands. But if any of their hearts — hers, Raoul's…Erik's…were to be whole again, she had to do this one last time. Like a bone that had not healed properly after a break, she had to snap a heart once more so that the wound could finally mend.

"Raoul," she said. "If I went through with this, we would not last. I think both of us have known that for a long time now, but I was too afraid to say it, and you were too in love with who I used to be to see it. If I vow to spend the rest of my days with you now, I would hate myself forever, and you would lose me. You deserve so much better, my good, kind, wonderful Raoul. You were everything I wanted for so long, but now…I know what I _need_. And for once in my life, I will not allow the choice to be taken away from me. My life is my own opera, and I am the composer who decides where it will go — no one else. I can only pray that you will forgive me."

Leaning up on her toes, she kissed his cheek softly, her heart breaking a little when she felt one of his tears against her face.

" _Au revoir, mon ch_ _è_ _re_ ," she whispered softly.

Christine did not trust herself to meet his eyes again. Drawing back from Raoul, she faced the congregation. She knew that they were whispering, gossiping, even laughing, but she had no time to pay attention to their ridicule. Fixing her eyes on the double doors at the end of the aisle, she hiked up her skirts, kicked off her shoes, and ran.

The doors banged behind her as she ran into the blinding sunlight of a Paris afternoon. Birds chirped in the trees lining the sidewalk as the smells of summer floated on the air. Pigeons cooed at her from the ground as she sprinted past. She wanted to place as much distance between herself and the de Chagny chapel as she possibly could. She ran until her lungs burned, until she had gotten herself well into the center of the city. The men laughed and catcalled; the ladies gasped and pointed their fingers; one child even suggested that his mother go and fetch the authorities to take her to the mental hospital, but she paid them no mind. When the summer wind blew through her dress, lifting her dark curls into the air, she felt like she could fly. She tore her veil from her head without a thought, letting it fall behind her.

Using every bit of space in her opera singer's lungs, Christine breathed the sweet-smelling air.

Then she laughed.

How wonderful it was to laugh! It had to have been months since she had really, truly laughed. Merry giggles tumbled out of her until her sides ached and tears ran down her cheeks.

For the first time in her life, Christine Daaé felt free.

There were no expectations to meet, no threats, no impending vows. She was free to follow the path that her heart had always laid out for her.

Stretching her arms out beside her, she reveled in the feeling of the air rushing past her fingers, enjoying the glorious heat of the sun on her face. The vibrant hues of nature seemed to paint themselves on her very soul. Christine had always loved the outdoors, whether there was sunshine or sleet. As a child raised on the country roads of Sweden, it became part of her blood, and it was only now that she realized how much she had missed it.

Eventually, she slowed to a brisk trot, her breathing slowing enough for her to clear her mind. She watched a pair of songbirds flitting overhead, weaving invisible patterns in the air with their flight. When they came to rest on a tree branch, chirping merrily at each other, Christine smiled.

It was time for her to go home.

Her skirts flowed around her in an enormous cumulus cloud. For the first time since she had bolted from the chapel, it occurred to her how truly ridiculous she looked. She shook her head at herself, picking at her hair. What had been an elegant and intricate coiffure this morning was now a windblown mess. All the same, she could not find it in herself to care. There would be plenty of time to fix her appearance later.

Right now, she had a heart to fix — a far more important task altogether.

* * *

Again, thank you so much for your support! I am blown away by all of the follows, favorites, reviews, and all-around love this story is getting.

For those of you wondering when Erik will make his appearance, not to worry! You'll see him tomorrow. I can hardly wait.

 **Gaby1964:** I am so glad I have been able to break your run of poorly written Erik/Christine stories. I certainly endeavor to make Erik and Christine human, rather than two walking balls of angst. They come from deep in my heart, so I am happy to hear that their translation from my heart to the written word is a successful one. I give you so much credit for reading fan fiction in a second language, and I am especially honored that you are pleased with my work.

 **You Are Love:** Thank you! I think people are often so caught up in their fascination with Erik's character (and I am certainly guilty of this) that the beauty of Christine's complexity as a character falls into the background. I have enjoyed writing her as she develops a backbone, and comes into her own as a fully-grown woman.

 **Melstrife:** I'm glad that you are rooting so hard for these characters. It's really wonderful to see! Though Erik didn't exactly steal the bride, he did steal her heart; I hope you're even more pleased with the idea that Christine took the initiative to leave on her own, finally learning to pursue the future she wants.

 **Glacifly4POTO:** Erik awaits you tomorrow! Thank you for your review. Capturing Christine's complexity was a delightful challenge.

 **SunnyBunny99:** Thank you so very much! Your thoughtful remarks are more highly appreciated than I can say. I hope this chapter measured up to your expectations.


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Christine did not anticipate the waves of emotion that crashed over her when she stood on the steps of the Opera House once more. Memories washed over her with a slow, sad sweetness. When she touched a firm pillar, she was a newly-orphaned little girl again, staring wide-eyed at the grandest palace she had ever seen. Its gilded arches soared above her, offering her celestial promises of angels and fairytale dreams.

She walked inside the great doorway that beckoned to her, and watched shadows of her younger self dance along the halls. Here was where she had hidden from Meg in a game of hide-and-go-seek. Here she had been scolded by Madame Giry for trying to sneak into Box Five. Christine smiled to herself. How silly she had been never to realize that, for much of her life, Box Five would have been the safest place in the world for her.

And there, beyond the boxes…there was the stage.

Hurrying through the corridors, she traced the familiar path to the wings that she had traveled so many times before. When she finally came out onto the wide expanse of the Opéra Garnier stage, the feeling of elation that surged within her was uncontainable. Here, there were so many beautiful memories. Her first performance as part of the _corps de ballet_ …her first triumph as a prima donna. How far she had come. Of course, the seats were empty now, and the staff was still largely on leave as the Opéra took time to recover from the disaster of six months ago. The scars of the gunfire, and all the horrors of the night of _Don Juan Triumphant_ , seemed to be healing well.

But something was not right. Christine had stood on this stage alone many times, but now, looking out over the sea of red velvet chairs, she could not help but feel that something was missing. The chemistry of the theatre, the very air she breathed…it was all wrong. Her eyes traveled to Box Five. For the first time in her life, she did not feel another pair of eyes looking back.

The thought terrified her.

Christine turned back into the wings and broke into a full-blown sprint. This beloved building had been her home for many years; she knew its language. It was an extension of Erik. She knew what it felt like in the exhilaration before every show, when activity buzzed through the wings and every extremity of the theatre sparked with energy; she knew what it felt like when the stage went dark, with only the ghost light to illuminate the calm night. Even in the worst of times, it never felt like this. The energy that fueled this theatre — _his_ energy — was entirely absent. She could not remember a time when she had stood on the stage, from innocent ballerina to conquering opera diva, and had not felt the intensity of his gaze. His ever-watchful golden eyes were always there to protect, encourage, and adore; he bestowed the very same care on the theatre itself. The Opera House was Erik's palace. He was its beating heart. Without him, it was nothing. Without his presence, the very air seemed hollow.

The Opéra Garnier was telling Christine that something was horribly wrong. It was tired of fighting, of telling stories destined to end in tragedy. It was an empty shell where something beautiful once soared on the wings of song.

Her tiny feet carried her to her old dressing room. Flinging open the door, she hurtled into the now barren space that was once her refuge.

She cast her eyes frantically about. The room was completely bare. The walls, once covered in pink patterned wallpaper, were now whitewashed, and the fine mahogany furniture was gone. Even the beautiful vanity mirror where she had prepared for all of her shows as prima donna had been removed.

But it wasn't the room's emptiness that struck her. What broke her heart was the sight of her magnificent gilded mirror, smashed to bits on the ground. The glass was everywhere. The sight brought tears to her eyes.

Kneeling down, she carefully picked up a fragment of glass.

What had she done?

The mirror seemed a cruel reflection of all that had gone so terribly wrong in her relationship with Erik. When he had broken the illusion that he was an angel, she — careless and childish — had destroyed his trust and rejected the love of his aching soul in return. If this shattered mirror held the broken heart of her Angel of Music in its shards, what would she find when she reached the house by the lake?

Uneasiness churned in her gut. When he flew into his fits of madness, rage and despair consuming him in equal measure, Erik was capable of anything.

Christine noticed drying droplets of blood scattered on the floor around her. Her eyebrows furrowed. Erik would never harm his hands — he needed them to compose his music. Unless…

 _Unless he did not plan on playing music any longer_.

Icy shards of fear shot through her heart. Everything she had felt since entering the Opera House made sense. She had to find Erik. Now.

She rushed to the darkened passageway beyond the mirror, but came to a sudden stop when she saw the abyss of shadow beyond. It was then then that she realized she had never found her way to Erik's underground home on her own before. He had always been there to guide her and light her path, to steer her out of harm's way and protect her from the dark. As he had done in every aspect of her life…

No one was here to help her now. For the first time, she was entirely on her own.

New terrors built on top of the old ones. Erik had been a major player in the construction of the subterranean paths beneath the Opera, and with them, he had installed every kind of trap and torture imaginable to keep the curious and unlucky out of his domain. If she stepped incorrectly, or took one wrong turn, she could find herself in a deep pit or a maze of mirrors from which there was no escape. Both she and Erik would die.

But amid all of the fears swirling around her mind, a small voice whispered in Christine's heart the only words that could calm her.

 _Erik needs me._

She could find her way, she reminded herself. She could not succumb to fear. She had to embrace her newfound courage, and think. Erik had taught her all his tricks. She knew what subtle signs would signal booby traps; she used to travel with him through the underground network beneath the Opera almost every day, and she had always paid rapt attention to his instruction. Once she reached the house by the lake, she would have the power to calm his madness. In fact, that was something that she alone had the power to do. She just had to be brave enough to try.

Stepping cautiously over the threshold of the broken mirror into the opening of the tunnels, she unhooked the lone lantern that stood sentinel on the wall beside her dressing room. She had not come this far to lose everything her heart desired. Christine faced the shadowed road ahead of her.

"Erik, my Angel, I'm coming."

* * *

He could barely feel the cold. The water soaked through the legs of his trousers, turning them an even darker shade of black. Erik reveled in the numbness it brought to everything it touched. Soon it would seep into his mind, into his mouth, and all would be well. Nothing but peace, and silence, and rest from pain…at last, no more pain…

"Goodbye, Christine," he whispered as the water slipped up to his torso. _I love you_ _…And you will never know how we could have loved each other..._

 _"_ Erik!"

He smiled to himself. Closing his eyes, he gloried in the sweetness of the sound. Even amid the fog of memory, her voice was perfect. It was fitting that her imagined presence should seem so clear to him in the moments before he departed this world. It would be as though she journeyed into the unknown alongside him.

"Erik, stop! I am here!"

Chills raced down his spine. How lovely his name sounded when it rolled off her exquisite lips.

He became vaguely aware of the water stirring around him, swelling in tiny waves around his neck and up to his chin. He paid it no mind. If any errant creature had entered his domain, it would soon be of little consequence.

Suddenly, two tiny hands grasped his arm in a grip like iron. His eyes shot open. He was being pulled up and out of the water, and he stumbled in his attempts to find his footing. He tried to jerk away, but his assailant had the advantage of a higher position and better balance. White hot fury raced through his veins.

The warrior lying dormant in Erik's mind awakened. Swiftly, his feet found the sloping ground beneath the waters of the subterranean lake. He shot upright, towering to his full height. He twisted his attacker's hands off his arms; in the next moment, he had two tiny wrists held securely in his hands.

And he found himself staring into the most beautiful blue eyes he had ever seen.

 _Even now, I am dreaming_.

"Erik," she said, lips quivering. Tears stained her flawless face and colored her voice. "Erik, Angel _,_ it's me. It's your Christine. I've come back for you. I've come home."

All Erik could do was stare. He had no words. The only thing he knew for certain was that he had slipped further beyond the reaches of sanity than he had ever been in his life. His mind was conspiring with his heart to betray him — to play yet another cruel trick, and plunge a dagger so deep into his soul that his death would hold just as much agony as his wretched existence. Well, he wanted no part of this beautiful fantasy. He had lived too long with only the shadows of his consciousness for company to believe it. He only wanted peace.

Erik released the wrists of the false Christine. Slowly, he bent down close to her face. The hint of a smile pricked up the corners of her lips…until she saw the hatred in his eyes.

"Get. Out."

She blinked heavily, her face crumpling before she managed to reconstruct its expression.

"Wh — what?"

"You heard me," he snarled, marring the velvet tones of his voice. "Get out. Leave me alone. Have you not tormented me long enough?"

Erik watched with cold satisfaction as heartbreak splintered across the false Christine's face.

"No," she said, in an attempt at strength. "No, I will not leave you."

Erik's lip twitched. He felt daggers shoot through his skull.

"You will not…leave me?" he replied faintly. _Leave_ _…_ _abandon_ _…_ _betray_ _…_

Red began to cloud his vision in a painful attack. Memories, excruciating memories, danced behind his eyes — Christine tearing off his mask as he proposed to her, exposing his greatest weakness to a crowd of patrons when he was most vulnerable; Christine giving her ring back, rejecting the only physical evidence she would have of her relationship with him; Christine drifting across the lake, leaving him forever to marry another man. The visions started to fly through his mind in such rapid succession that he could barely see — Christine weeping, Christine and the chandelier, Christine running away — his mother, a cage, a whip, a mask, a monkey playing the cymbals. Crying out, he pressed two hands to the sides of his head.

"You will not… _leave me?_ _"_ His voice tore the air on a savage scream. "No — no, you _have_ left me. Christine has gone from my life forever, and she will never come back." He thrust an accusing finger in her face. " _You_ are a horrible lie, my soul's last cry to keep me from leaving this wretched existence. But I will soon have the truth!"

Erik stumbled forward, lost in his rage. Christine stepped back with wide eyes, but he caught her shoulders, his grip fierce. In a savage, animal motion, Erik tore his mask from his face, exposing the cruel deformity that had always barred him from a normal life — from love. Stark, raised ridges of white flesh contrasted harshly with the deep reds and browns that stretched between them. One golden eye stared from the depths of a shadowed socket, while his breath rushed in rapid bursts from the empty hole that should have been the right side of his nose. The cold, damp air struck his sensitive skin, but for once, he did not care.

"Look at me! The real Christine would flinch away. She would not look upon me with such a steady gaze as you have now. She would run back to safety and light and her _perfect_ Vicomte. She would not stay to confront the ugly truth that faces her…to listen to the music of the night that has always played in her soul. She is too afraid to listen. She would not stay to realize the truth her heart has always told her."

Tears streamed down Christine's cheeks. Somewhere in the midst of the hurricane in Erik's mind, that fact registered. Christine was crying, and Christine should never cry — even if it was a false Christine entirely invented by his subconscious. Christine should only ever know joy and love.

Slowly, Erik's vision came back into focus. His breathing slowed, the pains in his head fading to a dull throb. He reached his hand out to the vision of Christine that stood before him, stopping just before he could touch her cheek. A watery smile softened the harshness of his deformity. But when he saw a tentative, glad smile brighten Christine's face in return, sorrow dropped onto his shoulders just as quickly as rage had set him on fire — sorrow for a future of never seeing her smiles again.

The fragile seams of Erik's heart started to tear afresh. He jerked his hand away. Slowly, he hung his head.

"No…she would not stay." Weariness crept into Erik's voice. He was just so _tired_. A sigh drifted out of him, carrying a disappointment that sounded worn and ancient. "And I cannot live any longer for people who never stay."

He turned back to the dark waters. He needed rest. All he wanted was rest. But the vision of Christine spoke.

"You think I'm not real."

"Oh, I don't think you aren't real. I know you aren't."

Erik felt her move behind him, and suddenly her hands were on his shoulders. She turned him to face her.

"Erik, it is _me_. I am here. I am real, my Angel _._ "

The use of that old, familiar appellation caught his attention. Her gaze searched his, begging with him to believe. His golden eyes lit, as though catching on the truth for a moment, before they returned to stone.

"Real," he scoffed. "My mind has crafted such vivid fictions before. Tell me: if you are Christine, what could possibly cause you to return to me? I live beneath the ground with only my music and my madness for company, and according to your own words, I am a deceiver with a monster's face. Why leave your darling Vicomte and the life of luxury he offers you? There is nothing left for you here."

Christine stepped closer, shifting her grip to his hands. She squeezed them tightly.

"But there _is_ ," Christine's eyebrows creased as she stared into Erik's eyes, intent and determined. "Erik, I do not deny that I was childish and foolish. I admit that I was weak. I admit that I have made so many mistakes, fumbling with your heart and dropping it so many times in my carelessness. But I tried to live without you…" She shook her head, an unnameable, deep sorrow clouding her eyes. He had only ever seen that look once before — in the moment when she had returned her ring on her final night at the Opera. "I cannot. Every second of every day, my whole being has wept for the piece of my soul that was left behind when I left you. My dreams tormented me each night with the distance that stretched between us. No matter how far I run, my Angel, you are always with me, calling me back to you. You are a part of me."

Erik was silent, his jaw set. He drew his hands away from her. With a scrutiny that was cold and cruel, he studied the face of the woman before him. When he spoke, each word was slow and calculated — meant to bite into her very core.

"You have never given me a reason to trust your love. Why should I believe you?"

It was clear that she was taken aback. He could see it in her eyes. The words struck right where Erik wanted them to — in that tender place where heart and soul connect to create the purest kind of love imaginable. Erik knew it well. Christine had wounded him there many times.

He expected her to cry, to collapse, or even run away. Christine was usually given to such responses where he was concerned. What he did not expect was that she would stand her ground. She straightened her shoulders and looked him directly in the eye.

"Once upon a time," she began. "I knew an Angel of Music. When he came into my life, I was a wilting, hollow shell. My heart was in tatters, for when my father died, he took my music with him."

To Erik's surprise, a soft, tender smile began to blossom on Christine's lips. It held years of happy memories in its glow.

"But in my Angel, I found my music again. In the sound of his voice, I found my home. He became my best friend. And through his teaching, I learned how to sing once more." Her cheeks brightened with a faint blush. "I fell in love with him. As months turned into years, I loved him more and more."

She swallowed, looking down for a moment. Erik was reeling. His heart leapt into his throat. _Could it be?_ He didn't dare hope…and yet…

Her eyes lifted to meet his.

"But my Angel's lies broke my heart. And my trust."

Erik's heart shattered as quickly as it had lifted. This was real. All too real. But he was determined to put up a front of indifference. He could not yield to her, and show her that his heart was just as vulnerable as ever. He had to be strong. He could not let her hurt him again.

"Suddenly, everything I thought I knew about my Angel fell to pieces," said Christine. "He did not dwell in Heaven, but in the dark caverns beneath the Opera House. He was no longer a perfect celestial being, but a dark Opera Ghost — deeply flawed and filled with anger. Gone was our friendship, replaced by intimidation, force, and mystery. The ugliness of his rage terrified me. He threatened, he hurt, and he _killed_. I didn't know who he was anymore. You see," an unfamiliar glint of steel flashed in Christine's blue eyes as they regarded Erik's cool exterior. "It was difficult to love someone I did not know."

The words struck a blow deep in Erik's soul. Against his will, tears began to gather in his eyes, agony choking his words. In that moment, he hated himself with all the passion in his heart. What had he done? The fool, what had he _done_? Real or not, the Christine that stood before him spoke a truth that he had always pushed from his mind, so consumed with passion and jealousy that he refused to acknowledge it. He had always been terrified that he was not enough — that Christine could never love him for himself, with all of his ugliness and sins. And so, as he always did when he felt weak, he had turned to his elaborate constructions of power, to his Opera Ghost persona. A Phantom was strong and controlled his own fate. He took what he wanted without a thought given to anyone else. He could control Christine; he had to, or he would stand no chance. If only he had not been so blind...

He had been so consumed in controlling Christine that he could not see that he had held her heart in his hands all along. His own foolishness had lost him the only woman he ever loved.

"No, no…" he whispered, his voice catching on his tears. "Christine, I —"

"But," Christine continued, stepping forward to take Erik's hand. She weaved her fingers with his, gazing deeply into his eyes. "Sometimes, the Opera Ghost stepped aside to reveal the man underneath. And I saw Erik." She smiled. "I saw _my_ Erik. He was kind and tender — a shy gentleman whose fragile heart beat with unfathomable love. He was passionate, on fire with adoration for the music he composed. In time, he became my friend, just as much as my Angel had been. In the end, I came to love him more than I ever loved my Angel. It was _because_ of his human imperfections that I loved him. He was a real man of flesh and blood, whom I could see and touch. Like a cut diamond, he shone because of every blow life had given him. And he was beautiful."

Christine sighed, bliss radiating from every part of her.

" _You_ are beautiful, Erik. If I feared your face, it was only for a moment. What I feared more was the power of the love you offered me. Your love is an inferno that scorches every part of me, but it is also a tender hearth flame that keeps me safe and warm. The passion you feel so deeply…the raw strength of every emotion in your body, the fury that seems always poised to consume you…the infinite beauty of your heart…they overwhelmed me. I ran from the truth of my own heart because I feared it. It is as you said. I was too afraid of the music that played within me — music that only you have ever been able to touch."

Christine stepped so near that their bodies were nearly touching. Her face was inches before his. Erik's breathing quickened; even in dreams, she still had such a strong effect on him. _This cannot be a dream_ , Erik pled with the universe. _I know it is not. Please show me that it is not a dream._

"I was afraid of my own power, too," she said, more quietly. "I feared my own power to make life-altering choices. Being my own master seemed too big of a task. But I will no longer be a chorus girl in the story of my own life. I am the leading lady, and I must find the courage to set right what I have done wrong. I must conquer my nightmares. I must make the choice that I always allowed fear to make for me."

Christine held Erik's gaze firmly in hers. Slowly, she raised her left hand, and brought it toward his face. His breathing was ragged, his eyes wide as they shot from Christine's serene blue eyes to her little white hand. Terror and hope mingled in his heart.

"My hands have only ever been used to destroy," said Christine. "Now, my deepest desire is to use them to heal."

Her hand stopped, hovering less than an inch above the tender skin of his deformed cheek. Erik could feel every pounding beat of his heart resounding through his body, pulsing in his ears. She was _so close_. Every detail of her face, every facet of her blue eyes, everything was more perfect than he could ever imagine it in a dream. Oh, if this was real, and all she said was true, why, _why_ would she not touch him?

She whispered, so close that he could feel her breath on his lips,

"Will you let me try?"

"Yes," he breathed, and in the same instant, her hand came to rest on his ravaged cheek. He sighed deeply, closing his eyes. Tears stung behind his eyelids. His hand shot up to meet hers, holding it tightly as she stroked every part of his deformity. Each caress was an adoration where before there had only been abuse. His face had always been condemned as the ugly manifestation of his twisted soul; her touch made it beautiful.

"Oh, Christine," he sighed, opening his eyes to reveal a joy that was heartbreaking in its uncertainty. "I want to believe. This is more beautiful than anything I have ever known, more precious than anything I could conjure up in my most perfect fantasy. I see in your eyes everything that I ever wanted…what I want more than life itself. But how can I be certain? How do I know that I have not slipped completely into delusions at last? I have seen so much darkness since you left me that I cannot distinguish it from the light."

He gestured helplessly at her, at her hand that so gently traced every bony ridge of his hideous deformity.

"I…" he swallowed, intoxicated by the glorious feeling of her perfect fingers upon him. "I do not understand. I am not a good man, Christine. My soul is as warped as the face you so casually touch. I have committed unspeakable crimes, the like of which you could not imagine in your…darkest…" Erik's words were stolen as Christine tentatively traced her finger along his sunken cheek, and trailed it down his scarred throat. It seemed that his words of warning bounced idly off her — she only continued to touch him, exploring, studying as if she could not get enough of him…as if his face were somehow handsome to her. When she tentatively traced her finger along his swollen upper lip, she nearly undid him. He struggled to blink back the haze of desire she wove with her innocent little hands. Clumsily, he pushed them away so that he could meet her eyes.

"Do you not understand that you touch the face of a demon? You saw that clearly enough before, and ran from me." His voice was thick with gathering emotion. Without a mask to conceal his emotions, the depth of his guilt, and his agony at Christine's abandonment, shone clearly in his eyes. He cursed the quiver in his tone. "How can I trust that you will not do so again?"

Wordlessly, Christine extended the tips of her fingers until they barely grazed Erik's. A deep sigh escaped his lips, ecstasy radiating from that small point of contact to every corner of his body. His gaze fell to their joined fingers, shining with tears of awe and disbelief.

"You have the power to destroy me with a single touch — a single word. Dear God, Christine, you do not know what you do to me. If I were to live without you again…if you left me alone…" His entire body tightened with the thought. It was unbearable. As his face began to crumple, Christine reached out to embrace him, but he jerked harshly away, a tortured cry escaping his lips. He curled his face into his arms, as if to protect the most vulnerable part of himself from the emotions she inspired.

In a voice so quiet, so terrified of the answer that his words were nearly indistinguishable, he asked, "Christine, how can I trust that you have chosen _me_?"

There was a pause for several moments. Erik, not daring to look up, stared at the water below him. Perhaps she had no answer. Perhaps she would leave him after all. In any case, he did not wish to witness her reaction. But to Erik's surprise, Christine stepped forward, firmly placing her hands on his cheeks — one flawless, one cruelly twisted. She lifted his head until he was forced to stand upright, though he still refused to meet her eyes. Gazing at him with all of the love and adoration that the years had kept hidden, Christine stepped flush against his chest. Erik shivered at the contact.

"Erik," Christine said. "Look at me."

Drawing a shaky breath, Erik slowly raised his eyes. He winced at the soft gasp he heard from her lips when his golden gaze met her blue one. She was afraid of him still, in spite of what she said, and rightly so…

"Your eyes, Erik," she whispered softly. "Your eyes are the most beautiful I have ever seen."

Erik blinked, staring at her with shock blatant in his every feature. _Beautiful?_

Christine smiled. "Through them, I see your soul. The soul that has been woven so completely with mine, on fire with devotion and passion and music. Your face, your past — they are a part of you, Erik, but they are not who you are. Your soul is who you are. And I fell in love with your soul long ago, in the days when you were an Angel, and I a mere child. You were the one who continued to place your hope in that love even when I had lost sight of it. Trust it, Erik. Trust the love that you know we have always shared."

Running a hand through his thin hair, and stroking his misshapen cheek, she gazed on him with such deep devotion that Erik nearly fell to his knees from its power. Her words overwhelmed him; tears trailed silvery paths down his cheeks as he reeled from her revelations. Gently, she wiped one away. The tender gesture squeezed Erik's heart in sweet agony.

"It took me so long to find my courage," she said softly. "But I'm not afraid of my heart anymore. And I am certainly not afraid of you."

The pure joy that bloomed upon her face dazzled Erik in its beauty. He was transfixed by its power, held captive in her adoring gaze. He never wanted to look away. Chills racked his body as Christine leaned forward to speak tenderly into his ear,

"How could I be afraid of the man I love with all my heart?"

And then she was kissing him. Lightning shot down Erik's spine as he reeled from the sensations she awakened with the touch of her lips on his. His hands shot straight out on either side of her body, grasping the air, unsure of what to do and how to hold her. But to his delight (and relief), Christine came to his rescue. Smiling into the kiss, she moved her hands down his arms — _oh, the wondrous feeling!_ — and found his hands, positioning them gently about her waist.

This was real; he felt it all the way down to the deepest parts of his heart, where there were no lies. The softness of her lips, the tender touches of her hands as they wove through his thin hair — everything was too perfect for his imagination to have crafted it. Christine loved him. _His Christine_ loved _him._

They pulled back, leaving only a few inches between their faces. Erik felt the coolness of drying tears on his cheeks, but he paid it no mind — the tears had vanished into a rare and brilliant smile.

"Christine, I love you," he said, with all the adoration in the world shining in his voice. He hastily grasped her hands, kissing them over and over. "I am yours, completely and utterly yours. Please forgive me — I did not believe in you. But you must understand, I have lived so long with the pain of losing you…I have dreamt you so often, and I thought I was dreaming still."

Her eyes became watery through her smile. Her hand came to rest on his ravaged cheek once more.

"There is nothing to forgive, my Angel. I spent many nights dreaming of you, fighting through fear and nightmares to feel your arms around me. But neither of us will ever have a need to dream again. I promise that you will never face this world alone." Searching his eyes, she could almost see his trust stitching his broken heart back together. She grinned. "I love you, Erik."

Sighing, Erik kissed her again, but this time, he did not restrain his passion. Fiercely, he held Christine's willowy frame to his own powerful body, molding her curves against the planes of his chest until she melted. Tasting her was like tasting fire. His hands fisted in her curls, his fingers relishing the feeling of the soft silken locks they had always longed to touch. A moan rose from deep in his chest when she took the reins, pressing back into him with a strength he had never found in her before.

Breathless, he broke from her and rested his forehead against hers, staring into her blue eyes as though he could never see enough of them.

"My dear," he said, a smirk playing on the corner of his lips. "I assure you, I wish nothing more than to continue devouring you with kisses and sweet touches. But we are standing in cold water up to our waists. We both should put on some warm clothes."

Christine giggled. Erik's heart all but dissolved at the sound.

"You're right." She looked down at her soiled white skirts, laughing fully this time. "I am rather a mess, aren't I?"

Erik smiled tenderly.

"A divinely beautiful mess."

Christine drew back, taking both of Erik's hands in hers once more. She bit her lip, a nervous blush of excitement rising to her cheeks.

"But if I'm not much mistaken…I think I have another wedding dress to change into."

A brilliant grin stretched across Erik's face, transforming his eyes into pools of warm gold. In the next instant, Christine was weightless, swept into Erik's arms with her head pressed against his beating heart.

"My beautiful bride," he whispered, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. In a few powerful strides, he had reached the shore of the lake.

As Erik walked the remainder of the familiar path to the door of his underground home, Christine smiled up at him, inhaling his scent from the coarse material of his suit jacket. She felt tears prick her eyes again, but this time, they were tears of joy. This was what a bride was supposed to feel. This was how a leading lady led her life. The moment that she had stopped being afraid of her own emotions, her wishes, and her deepest desires was the moment she could finally seize the happiness she longed for. Her heart had always belonged to Erik. Now that it beat next to his, she could finally be at peace.

Erik stopped just before he reached the door, gazing down with adoration at the woman who loved him.

"Welcome home, Christine."

* * *

Stay tuned for the epilogue tomorrow, folks!

Thank you so much to everyone showing their love for this story. Review responses for the previous chapter, as well as this chapter, will be posted after the epilogue tomorrow - I think I just want to let this chapter live on its own.


	5. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

Raoul sat wearily on the altar steps, fatigue weighing down his every limb. Manservants and maidservants worked around him to remove the decorations from the walls of the chapel, while kindhearted members of the wedding party carried bouquets of wedding flowers out the doors at the end of the nave. Though he was grateful for what they were doing, watching it happen only seemed to drive the spike of Christine's abandonment deeper into his heart. He wished they would stop, if only for a moment. He wished that everything would just stop. He had worked tirelessly all day to make sure that none of the day's events would reach the tabloids, paying off whomever he needed to ensure the privacy of the de Chagny estate until he was ready for news of the catastrophic wedding ceremony to be made public. Now all he wanted was rest — and to forget, just for a moment, that any of this ever happened.

He passed a hand through his blonde waves, resting his elbows on his knees and staring at the ground.

He supposed he he'd known for a while now that a part of Christine would always belong to her so-called "Angel of Music." He just hadn't anticipated that it would be her whole heart. He shook his head. It was his fault for not noticing. He was foolish to believe that he could ever compete —that he could stand a chance against the years of the music, and the strange, unnameable relationship that Christine shared with that monster.

What a lovesick idiot he had been.

"It isn't your fault, you know," said a soft voice behind him. Quietly, a small figure in a pale blue dress sat beside Raoul. "Whatever you do, you must never allow yourself to think that."

Raoul's gaze shifted sideways for a moment, catching on a familiar mane of blonde curls and light blue eyes. He returned to his intent study of the flooring.

"Then what must I think, Meg? That I am a fool instead? A fool for never noticing that ever since Christine left the Opéra, her heart belonged to someone else? Or perhaps I am a fool because I gave so much of myself to rescue her from the clutches of that vile demon, only to lose everything I fought for in the end."

Meg shook her head.

"No, Monsieur le Vicomte. You are no fool. You must understand: Christine's heart belonged to Erik long before she left the Opéra. She has loved him ever since an Angel came to comfort her in the days of darkness following her father's death. It just…took her a while to see that."

Raoul lifted his pain-stricken gaze to meet Meg's serene expression.

"So she lied to me? Is that what you're implying? You have a strange way of offering comfort, Miss Giry."

"Let me finish," Meg insisted steadily. "Yes, Christine has loved Erik for years, ever since she was a girl. But she loves you, too — in a different way. She loves you in the way that she loves the memories of her childhood, with a warmth that burns brightly and beautifully. You belong to the happiest days of her life. You are one of her dearest friends. And for the past year, she has desperately needed you. Without you in her life, amid all the darkness and confusion that swirled about her…I tremble to think what Christine would have become. Her spirit was always so fragile. It would have broken entirely without you. When she waded through the darkness, to find what her heart called her toward, she needed someone to light the way. You were an anchor. You were always there to remind her that life is worth living, and that good is worth fighting for. Your constant love for her through her darkest time showed her that love can bring someone back from the shadows. And I think, in the end, that helped her learn how to love Erik, and how to love herself. She learned to make her own choices."

Meg laid a gentle hand on Raoul's arm.

"So you see, you really made a tremendous difference. Without you, Christine would have become nothing but an empty shell. You kept Christine's soul alive when it could not stand on its own. She would have given up on the man she had always loved, and the music along with him. Because of you, Christine will finally be happy. As someone who loves her, don't you think that's worth something?"

Slowly, Raoul raised his head. He turned his tear-rimmed eyes to Meg's. Imperceptibly, he nodded his head.

"Thank you, Meg."

She smiled tenderly in return.

"You're a good man, Monsieur le Vicomte. Never forget that."

She began to rise to her feet, looking around for her mother. But a warm hand caught hers.

"Meg…will you sit with me awhile? I don't wish to talk, it's just…. _I_ need a friend to be my anchor right now."

Quietly, Meg resumed her place next to Raoul on the altar steps. Without a word, she simply held his hand in hers. They sat like that, hands joined, until the decorations had been cleared, and the sun started to set.

When the last servant had gone home for the evening, Meg slowly rose to her feet, and turned to help Raoul up. Together, they walked down the aisle to the doors of the de Chagny chapel, which stood open to the sunburnt sky. The clouds were painted in the vibrant orange and purple of a perfect summer evening.

"What a beautiful day it was," Meg said softly. "And to think, we hardly noticed."

A small smile lifted Raoul's lips. He looked down at Meg. He realized he had never really seen her before. Of course, he had spoken to her many times, and watched her dance with Christine on the stage of the Opéra — but he had never really _seen_ her, as a person all her own. Suddenly, this seemed to be one of the greatest missteps of his life.

When he returned his gaze to the sky, he felt the weight of his heartbreak drop onto his shoulders once more.

"For the first time in my life, I have no idea what I am going to do next," he said. "My future was Christine…after we married, we might travel the world, have a family, retire to the country, perhaps. Now what? What is the next step of a disgraced, heartbroken Vicomte after he has lost everything?"

Meg reached out to grasp his hand gently once more.

"This is."

She smiled up at him, tugging him gently so that he would step down from the chapel doorway. Raoul's eyes met hers, the hint of a smile lifting the corners of his lips.

"Christine isn't the only one with a happily ever after waiting for her," Meg said, gesturing at the beauty of the sunset and the city of Paris stretching off into the distance. "You will find yours."

The tatters of Raoul's heart lifted as he looked around him. He drew himself up straight, and breathed in the twilight air.

It was time for a new beginning.

* * *

And there you have it. Thank you to all who have joined me on this journey, and thank you to all future readers. Seeing all of the reviews, favorites, and follows this story has received has really warmed my heart in the midst of an increasingly busy time in my life. And for those of you who have added me as a favorite author...I am so humbled. It means more than I can say.

A note on the epilogue: I really felt that Raoul needed one. I take issue with stories that just kind of leave him in the dust, or completely change his character, just so it's easier for Christine to end up with Erik. They may be my OTP, but that doesn't mean I take the cheap way out.

 **Glacifly4POTO:** Our headstrong Christine has finally found her place at last - beside her Erik. :) And Raoul has found his place as well.

 **You Are Love:** This review will be something I look back on for encouragement whenever I think my writing isn't good enough. I am so floored that my vision of Erik and Christine has made it onto someone's list of "best reconciliation scenes ever." I have my own mental lineup of such scenes, and it's pretty tough to get a spot on it, so I understand the depth of that compliment. Thank you so much.

 **Gaby1964:** Yours is another review I will look at whenever I feel like my writing isn't going anywhere. Thank you so much. I'm overflowing with gladness that I was able to touch your heart so completely.

 **PhantomFan01:** Thank you very much for the pleasant barrage of reviews! I appreciated the blow-by-blow response to each chapter - they really made me smile! I hope the epilogue was to your liking.

 **Melstrife:** I love Erik/Christine happiness, too! It also inspires me to dance, on occasion! :) You are most welcome. That chapter was extremely challenging, but such a blast.

 **Not a Ghost3:** Wow! Thank you! I aim to please. :)


End file.
